by Dorian Hart
“No sign of Levec,” said Kibi. The stonecutter had joined Dranko standing next to the closer of the arch’s two squared pillars. He put his palm against it. “This ain’t any kind a’ ordinary stone I ever seen.” He held up his light-coin. “And it’s got metal in it.”
Intrigued, Ernie moved to join them. The surface of the Kivian Arch was knobbly, rough-hewn from something akin to granite, but darker and veined with thin black streaks.
“Ain’t natural,” said Kibi. “And it ain’t talkin’, neither.”
“It’s almost certainly magical,” said Aravia. “But it can’t hurt to be sure.”
That turned out to be an inaccurate statement. She twiddled her fingers to cast her magic-detecting spell, then with a cry threw her arm across her face before staggering backward and falling into the leafy mud. Ernie heard several others join him in his alarmed cry of “Aravia!” and Dranko was quickly at her side.
Tor hurried over. “Is she okay?”
Aravia groaned and sat up, one hand flat on the ground, the other rubbing her temples.
“I’m guessing that means it’s magic,” said Dranko.
Aravia seemed to try laughing; her shoulders shook a bit, but she was too weak to make much noise. Tor helped her to her feet, and she leaned against him, eyes closed, gulping air and coughing.
“I’ll…I’ll be all right,” she croaked, smiling up at Tor. “Wasn’t ready for that much magic. It was like having a room full of unshuttered lanterns aimed at my eyes at once. Not to mention I haven’t worked on any refinements to make casting aura sense less draining, and that was my third one in less than an hour. Not the smartest thing I could have done.”
Kibi stared at the arch, frowning, like he disapproved of it. “So what now?”
“I’ve got an idea,” said Dranko. “Since it looks like a crowd shows up here regularly, we should find somewhere nearby where we can hide out and watch without being spotted ourselves. See what happens. Maybe they have a way to open it. Maybe they just hang out and drink wine. Either way, we’ll learn more than we know right now.”
“But we can’t let them see us,” said Ernie. “And in the dark, how are we going to see them?”
“They probably bring torches or lamps or something,” said Dranko. Then he pointed to Morningstar. “And if they don’t, we’ve got her.”
Horn’s Company searched around the forest for a good twenty minutes before finding a suitably hidden thicket, far enough removed from the Kivian Arch that discovery was unlikely, but close enough for Morningstar to make out reasonable detail. It was possible, of course, that whoever showed up here would first search the surrounding forest for spies, especially if they included any of the townsfolk who had met the company earlier in the Old Keg. But they didn’t see any footprints near their hiding spot and did their best not to leave too many of their own.
Sunset brought with it a chorus of insect noises and the percussive brapping of bullfrogs. The night cooled a little as it deepened, and the rain stopped, though the cloud cover remained thick, blocking out moonlight and star-shine.
They ate an unsatisfying dinner of jerky and dried fruit, after which Aravia immediately fell asleep. Ernie sorely missed the Greenhouse kitchen, and sat in silence on a damp log, thinking about the pies he would bake when they got home. Presumably the Icebox would produce raw ingredients if he asked for them, and not just finished meals. How long would Icebox-conjured spices last? For that matter, some spices were rare and valuable, enough so that they could make a decent profit conjuring and selling things like saffron or asafetida. Eddings said the dishes vanished after a day, but did the food? He’d have to tell Dranko about his idea.
Ernie’s eyelids drooped as these thoughts flitted through his head, and eventually, lying on his back with his head on a passel of damp leaves, he fell asleep.
Then Tor was shaking him. “Ernie, wake up. Something’s happening.”
“Whuh?” he managed.
It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to near-total darkness. The cloud cover had thinned a little while he slept, allowing the faintest dappled wash of moonlight to reach the forest floor, and while Aravia was still out cold, Morningstar, Dranko, and Kibi had inched forward to the edge of the thicket closest to the arch. They were lying on their stomachs with their heads all nearly together, so they could whisper to one another as quietly as possible. He and Tor tiptoed over and lay down too, squeezing in.
Seven people had wandered up to the Arch from the direction of Seablade Point, two of whom Ernie thought he recognized from the Old Keg. One held a swinging lantern and another a sputtering torch. All seven were barefoot and dressed in nightshirts or sleeping gowns, but they showed no sign of discomfort at the chill night air. They weren’t talking to one another or communicating in any other way Ernie could see but milled about around the arch as if in a trance.
Over the next ten minutes another twenty-three people straggled into view, some by themselves, others in groups of two or three. Ernie’s breath caught a little; one of them was Perri, wearing a long white nightgown, her disheveled hair glinting in the light of the various lamps and torches brought by the others.
“What are they doing?” he whispered.
“Who knows?” answered Tor. “Let’s just keep watching.”
The assembled townsfolk slowly arranged themselves into a straight line, directly under the arch, stretching between its two columns. Some were facing away from the company’s hiding spot, while others were looking more or less straight at them. Thank Pikon their circle of light didn’t extend to the hidden thicket! Perri’s face was too far away for Ernie to discern anything of her expression.
All at once every light went out, plunging the Arch and its thirty visitors into blackness. But their eyes were pairs of little orange specks, hovering in a ragged line like a string of glowing beads, shining as though they were reflecting the light of a bonfire.
“That ain’t natural,” whispered Kibi.
The forest didn’t remain dark for long. A bright flame-orange light sprung up beneath the arch, filling its inverted U and enveloping the thirty villagers. It cast all the trees around it in a flickering glow, almost as if they were on fire, and it was easy to imagine that the people had also been set aflame. But there was no sound, no fiery crackling or torch’s hiss—just an enormous wall of light stretching the length and height of the arch.
Ernie nearly leapt from his hiding place, thinking that Perri and the rest were under some kind of magical attack, but Morningstar put a hand on his back and whispered harshly in his ear.
“We have no idea who else might be out there, and if we all go rushing out, we’ll be leaving Aravia unprotected. We’re here to gather information, so just watch and try to notice anything important.”
The townsfolk, now a line of glowing silhouettes, remained stock still for several more minutes, transfixed by the arch-light. It was all very dreamlike, the surreal tableau making little sense, particularly since Ernie had only recently been awakened. Maybe he was dreaming.
“Am I dreaming?” he asked Tor.
“I don’t think so.”
Out went the arch-light, leaving behind the pin-prick fires in the eyes of the villagers, though as before there was nothing they might be reflecting. Then a few small flames leapt up as several of them re-lit their lanterns and torches. In a shuffling, shambling, voiceless pack, the barefooted and nightshirted citizens of Seablade Point moved off into the forest, heading back toward their homes.
When the sound of their departure had faded, Ernie moved to stand up, stretch, and have a drink from his water skin. But Morningstar whispered, “Stay down and stay quiet. Someone’s still out there.”
Ernie squinted and tried to see, but after staring at the solid wall of orange light his vision was blotted with pulsing afterimages. Nervous seconds ticked away; Tor on his right and Morningstar on his left were both holding their breaths.
“He’s gone,” said Morningstar, and the fact that she
didn’t whisper led to everyone else sitting up, exhaling, and generally creating a stir. Only Aravia stayed where she was, still asleep, snoring gently.
“So should we follow him?” asked Tor.
“No,” said Morningstar. “Not with Aravia still out. It looks like we’re dealing with someone with magic at his disposal, and frankly I want Aravia up and alert when we confront him.”
“Who was it?” Ernie asked. “Someone we saw at the Old Keg?”
“No one I recognized,” said Morningstar. “Tall, on the heavy side, bushy gray beard, red hair. Long red robes. And more importantly, he was walking with a purpose. Everyone else was stumbling around like sleepwalkers, but the fellow who stayed behind, he was wide awake. And unlike the others he didn’t head back into town. I say we camp here tonight, let Aravia sleep off her spellcasting, keep watches in case anything else happens with the arch, and tomorrow morning we find our mystery man.”
Ernie was shaking from a combination of adrenaline and cold, but at the words “camp here” a tremendous drowsiness overtook him. He lay down again on the spongy forest floor and tried to rediscover his dreams of apple pies.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TOR HAD DIFFICULTY falling asleep.
In other circumstances he would have agitated for immediate pursuit of Morningstar’s red-robed man because what if he was a villain in the final planning stages of something truly awful, and the only time he left himself vulnerable was on his late-night walks back to wherever he lived? Or what if the Arch was about to open? Or it could be the man was Levec himself, and his shenanigans with the arch were preventing a gateway opening to what-was-it-called, the other country across the Uncrossable Sea.
Whatever was going on, they needed to know the truth, and the sooner the better! After all, Charagan was in danger, and they needed the Crosser’s Maze to stop the evil banished emperor from invading, but instead they had opted to wait until morning, which, he admitted, was the right call.
They needed Aravia. He rolled over and looked at her, sleeping, mouth slightly open, black hair matted and half covering her face.
She was the reason he couldn’t sleep. She needed protecting, and he wanted to protect her, and if he fell asleep too, who knew what could happen?
No, that wasn’t it. Wasn’t all of it. He couldn’t sleep because he was thinking about her, yes, but he was thinking all sorts of things about her, and it was very confusing.
At his father’s castle in Forquelle, Tor’s interactions with girls had been both limited and academic. His mother had a young lady-in-waiting who had smiled at him once, but his father had already warned him of the wily predilections and uncouth ambitions of the serving class. And a nobleman from mainland Lanei had brought his daughter on a state visit, a girl whom Tor was told might be a potential match for him in several years’ time, but she was obsessed with dresses and combs and centerpieces, all topics on which Tor could not muster even a mild opinion without growing sleepy. Girls and their interests held little fascination for him, and besides, he had known for years that he would be running away eventually, and having to drag a girl along with him would have been much too complicated.
But who could have guessed that there were girls like Aravia in the world? She was fantastic! She wasn’t afraid to say what she thought, and she didn’t shy away from adventure at all, not like he was sure the baroness’ daughter would have done, and she’d already saved his life at least once with her incredible magical powers.
The trouble, of course, was that she was so unbelievably smart. Tor was certain that Aravia was the smartest person he had ever met, except maybe Abernathy, but he was older and had lived longer, and Aravia would know just as much as Abernathy someday when she was an archmage, while Tor himself on the other hand…well, he was intelligent, his parents had always said so, but not in any way that mattered, and his memory was always spotty, and he knew he had trouble staying focused on things, and reading required spending too much energy thinking about only one thing at a time. The only pastime he found worthy of his focus was sword-fighting, and what could possibly cause Aravia to have any interest in a fighting man who didn’t like to read?
The few times she’d spoken directly to him, it was mostly to correct words he mispronounced or facts he had gotten wrong. Not that she was mean or derisive or anything; it was just how she was—smart—and she was working so hard to learn more spells, he shouldn’t distract her.
She was, if anything, even more beautiful when she was asleep, and he tried not to dwell on how his stomach lurched when he imagined what it might be like if he could hold her hand. Tomorrow, with Corilayna’s blessing, they’d discover a bad guy to fight, and life would be simple again.
* * *
When Tor woke the next morning, only his mouth was dry. It wasn’t raining, but there must have been an overnight squall sufficiently energetic to get through the trees, and his clothes were damp and pilled. That only bothered him for a moment; the others were up, including Aravia, sitting on soggy logs and eating a cold breakfast. She was well enough to have a book already open on her lap while she idly chewed her hardtack.
“New spell?” he asked.
Aravia didn’t look up. “Yes. Teleport.” She balanced the book on her knees and knit her brows in concentration, while her free hand executed a series of awkward slicing movements. “I almost have it, but I’ve got to get the gestural aspects just right, to redirect the aetheric counterforce.”
“Oh. That sounds important. I’ll let you concentrate.”
“Thanks, Tor.”
He didn’t take the dismissal personally, though it would have been nice to talk with her. She was like that with everyone, and her magical abilities were Horn’s Company’s most important asset.
He had missed some discussion about whether to go back into town or follow the man who had been last to leave the arch. The rest of the company had concluded that town was too risky, that they should first try to find the red-robed observer of last night’s strange ritual. Thanks to Ernie’s brief, well-meaning chat with the serving woman Perri, at least one of the townsfolk knew the company had an interest in Levec and the arch.
Leaving Aravia in peace, Tor wandered over to where Morningstar stood, gazing out of their secluded thicket toward the looming Kivian Arch.
“So you know which way he went?”
Morningstar pointed southeastward. “He left between those two trees, the one with the two knots and the skinny tree with silvery bark. He went in a straight line until I lost sight of him, so that gives us a good lead.”
Tor wolfed down breakfast and grabbed his driest clothes, but the others seemed to be taking their time. They should get moving! Though Aravia he could understand, since she was working hard on learning how to teleport. He wandered out into the clearing with the arch and stared up at its high crosspiece.
An idea popped unbidden into his head. “Hey,” he called back, “maybe something will happen if one of us walks through the arch after last night’s ritual.”
And he did, the cries from the others coming too late to stop him. Maybe it was only his imagination, but the air felt warmer, and just a bit tingly, as he passed beneath its span.
Even Aravia had come running. Her eyes were wide. “Tor, you nitwit! What if that had been a trap? That man was probably a Kivian, and they worship fire. You could have gotten yourself roasted!”
Nitwit? Tor winced. She was probably right. She was staring at him with an expression that he couldn’t decipher.
“But nothing happened,” he said. “And we might have learned something interesting. Besides, all those people stood underneath it last night, and they were even in nightclothes, and they didn’t get burned or anything. We’re here to get information, right? And, if anything bad was going to happen, better it happen to me.”
He realized as he said this that it sounded like he was bragging. But he was the strongest and toughest of the group, now that Grey Wolf was gone. (Kibi didn’t really count;
he was stronger, but not in a front-line-of-battle sort of way.) He had thought this through on the ship voyage to Seablade Point. Everyone else in the company had a clear purpose. Aravia was their wizard, and Dranko was their healer. Kibi and Ernie had some connection to the Eyes of Moirel and the Seven Mirrors, though Tor didn’t understand what it was, and Kibi also had the ability to talk to rocks. And Morningstar had prophetic dreams.
So what was his purpose? Only one thing made sense. He was the protector, not just of Aravia but the rest of them as well. It was his job to put himself in danger so that no one else would have to. Which, he supposed, made him important too, and that satisfied him.
Aravia was still staring at him.
“I, uh, didn’t mean to boast,” he said. “It’s just that—”
“Tor, shut up.”
Now he understood Aravia’s face; she was angry. He had never seen her angry. She always seemed so composed. “Next time,” she said, “tell us before you do anything stupid, okay? That way we can talk you out of it.”
“Sorry,” he said, and he meant it. He still thought it had been worth the risk, but it pained him that he had upset Aravia so badly.
“Hey Tor,” said Dranko. “Now that you’ve determined that the arch doesn’t set you on fire, let’s get moving.”
They trailed behind Morningstar in a line, picking their way over fallen branches and scattered mossy rocks. Unlike the forest around the ruins near Verdshane, this place was full of spring bustle; sparrows and chickadees flitted from tree to tree, chipmunks poked curious noses out from the underbrush, and clouds of gnats clustered in sunbeams.
Forquelle had no woods like these, but Tor had come to love them. They brought him an inner peace, a sense of waiting and watching and absorbing the beauty of nature, filling him with the energy he’d need for the perils and adventures that were sure to come. He was meant for the great outdoors, just as he was meant for a life of heroics, far from the throne of Forquelle.